


An unexplained death

by Estie



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Lust, Melted Chocolate, Mutual Pining, tmi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2020-09-22 23:23:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 18,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20330221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estie/pseuds/Estie
Summary: OK, this is my first attempt at fan fic and it is starting out as a straight G-rated case fic. The rating may change as I get further into the writing, having been ummminspiredby other works on this site (fans herself down).But this is a straight fic I have been pondering writing for years that came to life when I imagined Strike & Ellacott investigating.I'm only 3 chapters in to date but the muse has been motivated and more will come.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OK, this is my first attempt at fan fic and it is starting out as a straight G-rated case fic. The rating may change as I get further into the writing, having been ummm _inspired _by other works on this site (fans herself down). 
> 
> But this is a straight fic I have been pondering writing for years that came to life when I imagined Strike & Ellacott investigating.
> 
> I'm only 3 chapters in to date but the muse has been motivated and more will come.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Strike asked his friend, shovelling a large serve of sausages and scrambled eggs into his mouth.

Wardle looked at him closely and took a sip of milky white coffee.

“Who says there has to be a reason,” he replied. “Maybe I just want to have breakfast with someone who won’t criticise my consumption of trans-fats.”

Strike grinned. “Bollacks!” he said. “You want something. You never meet me for breakfast unless you want something.”

“Or vice-versa,” Wardle countered.

Suddenly he looked serious.

“We have an unexplained death,” he said. “Possibly a client of yours. He had your card on his body.”

Strike lifted his eyebrows. “Do you have a name?” he asked.

“Green. Sam Green,” Wardle replied watching Strike closely.

Strikes eyes went hard.

“Not a client,” he said shortly to Wardle.

Wardle waited, sensing there was more.

“He came and saw us, but we declined to take him on.”

Wardle raised an eyebrow.

“He was a prick. He upset Robin.”

“Upset you more likely,” thought Wardle to himself. “Was probably rude to Robin and you showed him the door.”

He was well aware of Strike’s protective stance towards his business partner. Strike had a chivalrous streak just under the gruff exterior he showed to the world. Robin was more than capable of dealing with rude clients as both he and Strike knew, but Strike would not tolerate any disrespect towards her.

“What did he want you to investigate?” Wardle asked.

“Don’t know. Didn’t get that far,” Strike replied. “Are you sure the bastard is dead?”

“He really got under your skin!” Wardle thought.

***********************

Wardle was right. Strike remembered the day he’d come down the stairs from his flat to hear a male voice practically shouting at Robin.

“I insist on speaking to Strike. Or his partner Ellacott. I refuse to be palmed off by a secretary.”

There was a sneer in his voice as he uttered the word “secretary”.

He heard Robin respond, perfectly polite but with an assertive edge to her normally patient tone.

“Then you would like to speak to me. I am Robin Ellacott, Mr Strike’s partner and co-owner of this firm.”

“You?!?” The male voice spluttered with disbelief and rage. “Don’t be silly!”

Strike opened the door to the office and walked inside.

“Hi Robin,” he said mildly but with deliberation, glaring at the man standing too close to her desk. “Is there something I can help you with?”

***********************

Strike didn’t know what he had expected to see when he walked into the room, but he was taken aback by the small, dark, skinny man that turned to him with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The man was about 30 and not more than 5’6”, at least an inch shorter than Robin, with a long torso and correspondingly short legs. Robin could have physically ejected him from the office without breaking a sweat.

“Finally!” the man said unctuously, stepping towards Strike with his hand held out. “Cormoran Strike. Your secretary has been trying to convince me she is your partner, Ellacott. Silly girl!” he laughed.

Strike ignored the proffered hand.

“Your name?” he growled at the man.

“Sam Green,” the man responded. “Now what I need is – ”

He got no further.

“Well, Mr Green,” Strike said in an even tone hiding his barely supressed rage. “Let me introduce you to my business partner, Robin Ellacott.”

Sam Green looked at Robin incredulously. “This girl?” he asked scornfully.

Strike took a step towards him. “Yes, ‘this girl’,” he said, mocking Green’s tone. “Miss Ellacott is my best investigator and a partner in this firm. But even if she wasn’t, she is no silly girl and deserves to be spoken to with politeness and respect.

“Let me explain to you how we work Mr Green. Either Miss Ellacott or I meet with a potential client and we ascertain their needs. If we think we can meet them AND we have capacity, we discuss our rates and organise a contract. Then, after the client has gone, Miss Ellacott and I discuss the case and together decide how we will approach it; some matters are particularly well-suited for Miss Ellacott’s skill set, some for mine and some for one of our employees. Any contract is with the agency which, as Miss Ellacott has already correctly informed you, is co-owned and co-managed by both her and me.

“The best thing about having our own business,” Strike continued meaningfully, “is that we decide which clients we take on and which we do not. Good-bye, Mr Green, we do not want your business.”

Strike opened the door and glared at Sam Green, who scurried quickly out the door with a final glance at Strike’s imposing bulk. Strike shut it behind him and turned to Robin who looked more bemused than upset by the events of the morning.

“Well that was an unpleasant start to the day,” commented Strike, stepping towards the kettle. “I think we both deserve tea and a biscuit.”

***********************

“That reminds me Cormoran,” Robin said, “I’ve got a present for you.” She dove under the desk and pulled a bright green and gold paper bag from her purse. “A new Australian food store has opened around the corner from my flat and I think you are going to really like the biscuits they have.”

Strike looked at the chocolate-covered rectangles set in the plastic tray Robin handed him. “Chocolate bars?” he said stupidly.

“They’re called Tim Tams,” Robin replied, biting into one. “And you are going to love them.”

***********************

It took less than half an hour for Robin and Strike to polish off the packet of Tim Tams between them. Robin showed Strike how to bite off the corners of the biscuit and use it as a chocolate straw to suck up tea. They both collapsed in a fit of giggles. Now they sat, their face smeared with chocolate, both feeling a little sick but also sorry there were no more biscuits left in the pack.

“Got to love Australian culture,” Strike said. “Their beer isn’t bad either. Not as good as Doom Bar, of course,” he added loyally.

“Maybe it’s just a cultural thing,” Robin said sleepily, reflecting on their morning visitor. “Maybe Sam Green just isn’t used to the idea of a woman being capable and in business.”

“More fool him,” Strike growled. “He misses out on a lot.”

“But I don’t think it’s just that,” he continued. “You forget, I worked in Afghanistan and in the army. Plenty of institutionalised sexism in both. Green had a level of contempt for women, particularly a young, attractive woman like you, that goes beyond culture. We don’t need him. I’m glad he’s gone.”


	2. Chapter 2

“So, how did he die?” Strike asked Wardle.

“Drug overdose,” was the laconic reply.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” Strike mused. “But hang on, what’s your involvement in this case? Are you saying that the Met’s finest can’t handle a simple drug overdose?”

Wardle looked at Strike. “It’s not that simple,” he said. “To start with, Green had no history of drug use.”

“So what?” Strike interjected. “Some people die the first time they use, especially if they don’t know what they are doing.”

“True,” said Wardle. “But then there’s usually plenty of evidence of injecting left behind. Bruises on the arm, a needle, traces of drugs. But in Green’s case there was nothing. It took forensics two examinations of the body after they had ascertained he was full of heroin to even work out how it got into him.”

“Between two of the toes on his right foot,” Wardle said in response to Strike’s questioning expression. “Technically possible for him to do himself, especially given his short legs, but virtually unheard of except by the most addicted junkie who has ruined all their other veins. And even if he did do it, how did he get rid of the needle? The medicos say he probably would have slipped into a coma before the needle was out of his body.”

“Where was the body found?” asked Strike, becoming interested despite his antipathy towards Green.

“That’s the best part,” Wardle grimaced. “Fourth floor office. No elevator. Even if he had been able to somehow pull out the needle, the medicos are adamant there’s no way he could have walked down four flights, got rid of the needle and climbed back up again. We’ve searched the rest of the building, most of which was completely locked off, and there is no needle anywhere.”

Wardle took another sip of his coffee.

“It’s definitely murder,” he said.

***********************

“Who is Green, anyway?” Strike asked.

Another grimace from Wardle. “I was hoping you’d be able to help me with that.”

“As far as we can tell, he’s nobody. The office he was found in is one used by those dodgy fly-by-night businesses – rented by the month, no questions asked. But he doesn’t seem to have been running a scam or doing anything much. There was nothing in it except the furniture that comes with the office and his laptop.”

“And the dead body,” Strike interjected.

“His wife said he was a strategic analyst – whatever that means!” said Wardle, ignoring the interruption. “She doesn’t know. She’s one of those women completely caught up with their kid – beautiful little girl by the way. She’ll be okay – Green had a decent life insurance policy on him.”

“No, the most interesting thing about Green,” Wardle continued, “is that he was the subject of at least seven reports to the national terrorist hotline, all of which went nowhere.”

Strike started. “With that track record, I’m surprised MI5 aren’t all over the case,” he observed.

“They don’t want it,” Wardle said darkly. “They say they’ve checked multiple times and there is nothing in it. They say the most he might be is a fantasist with a talent for pissing people off, all of whom had the same great idea of dobbing him into the terrorist hotline as a petty form of revenge.”

“So, the reports were made by different people?” Strike asked.

Wardle frowned. “This is strictly off the record. I shouldn’t even know. But MI5 were so worried they’d be lumped with the case, they condescended to share the little information they had with me. Apparently Green, arrived in London two years ago – “

“From where?” asked Strike.

“Sri Lanka,” Wardle replied. “He had three short-term consulting jobs with three different NGOs – non-government organisations. He doesn’t seem to have made a positive impression anywhere.

“Shortly after leaving each job, several phone calls were made to the terrorist hotline by different people using different phone lines. None of the reports had anything concrete to them; one claimed he was fundraising for Tamil insurgents, another said he was spying for Sri Lanka’s current regime. Some pointed to websites he had set up or administered, all of which were superficial stand-alone sites with content ripped from other websites and news agencies. Apparently, he got the NGO jobs by claiming to have worked for the UN in Sri Lanka but no-one who worked with him seems to believe he ever did. He was fired from one job for sexually harassing a colleague and another for arguing with a manager who happened to be female. He seems to have a problem with women. His most successful position was where he was brought in ostensibly as a media manager but unofficially to demoralise and decimate the mostly female workforce. Nine women – all respected long-term employees – resigned or were sacked during his five months at the organisation.”

“Nice,” said Strike sarcastically. “Well from the little I saw of him, Id say he was the right man for that job.”

“He seems to have left behind a trail of chaos and bad feelings but enough for murder? I don’t think so,” Wardle continued.

“Well, it’s not your case. But if you do happen to stumble onto anything, I’d appreciate a call.”


	3. Chapter 3

“What did Wardle want?” asked Robin, as Strike walked into the office.

Strike paused, wondering how Robin knew he’d been with Wardle.

“Remember that tosser, Sam Green, who came in the office the other week?”

“Of course,” Robin replied. “How could I forget such a charming man?”

They both laughed.

“Well he’s been found dead. Drug overdose. Wardle says it is murder.”

“Really?” said Robin, getting excited. “When? Where? Why?”

“Dunno,” Strike replied. Then he added curiously. “How did you even know I was with Wardle just now?”

“I’m a detective!” Robyn said, in a dramatic and mysterious tone.

She laughed at Strike’s expression.

“Wardle just called. You left your phone behind at the café, you silly dolt.”

Shit. Strike was furious with himself. His phone was his lifeline to clients, friends, the world.

“I suppose he has it now,” he said despondently. He was not looking forward to traipsing across town to retrieve it or waiting for Wardle to have the opportunity to drop it back at the office. The last thing Wardle had said when leaving was that he would be stuck in back-to-back meetings until 9pm that day.

“Don’t worry,” Robin said, smiling at Strike’s mournful expression. “Gino has you covered,” she added, referring to the café’s brusque but kindly owner. “He’s storing it behind the counter and is under strict instructions to keep it safe until his most valuable customer picks it up. Looks like you are getting the sandwiches today.”

***********************

It was 10am when Strike strode back into the office, his hands full of bags of sandwiches, cigarette in his mouth and phone safely tucked in his jacket pocket. He was surprised to see Robin still there – she’d been planning on following a mark whose wife thought was cheating on him; after meeting the wife, a voluble whining middle-aged woman, Strike wouldn’t be surprised if he was, if only to get away from her nasal twang for a while. Robin was passing tissues and speaking quietly to a small dark woman with a toddler in tow.

Strike decided to leave her to it. Robin was always better than him in dealing with crying women. Besides, he felt uncomfortable when they leaned in to sob on his chest. But Robin caught his eye.

“Cormoran, this is Miranda Green. The wife of the client we were unable to take on last week.”

Strike drew a breath. Robin was always so tactful. A surge of gratitude and maybe something else rose in him.

“Apparently her husband was found dead in his office two days ago, and she says they police have told her that it was not a natural death.”

Robin’s voice was perfectly neutral, with a slight twinge of surprise and concern. No-one could have guessed that she and Cormoran had been discussing this very case less than an hour previously.

“I was just telling her that we were so busy, we didn’t even have a chance to find out why he had come to us…”

“And now he’s dead!” spluttered Mrs Green.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Strike said blandly. He wasn’t as good as Robin at hiding his feelings.

“You said the police are investigating?”

“Yes.”

“And why are you here, Mrs Green?” Strike asked.

Robin glared over Mrs Green’s shoulder at him.

“Mrs Green wants to know what we know,” she said gently. “But as I was just telling her, we don’t know anything.”

“That’s right,” Strike answered brusquely. “Robin, aren’t you supposed to be…? Don’t you have an appointment?”

“Yes, right,” Robin said, jumping up. “Cormoran, could you just finish up with Mrs Green. Reassure her that I’ve told her everything we know. Which is nothing,” she added hastily, as Mrs Green looked at Strike hopefully.

“And be nice!” she hissed in Strike’s ear as she passed him. “She just lost her husband and it is not her fault he was so awful.”

***********************

Robyn disappeared out the door in a flurry, a swirl of strawberry blonde curls and sweet perfume. Strike glanced after her despairingly and then looked back at Mrs Green.

“Your wife is very nice,” the woman said shyly.

Cormoran jumped.

“Robin’s not my wife, she’s my partner. My business partner,” he added.

“Umm… Mrs Green, I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t think there is anything else I can tell you. As Robin – Miss Ellacott – told you, we didn’t even speak more than a few words with your husband. She spoke to him more than I did. What do you want from us?”

Mrs Green looked at him surprised. “I want you to find out who killed him of course.”


	4. Chapter 4

Later, Strike wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to take on the case. There was no money in it, the police were already investigating, and the victim was an odious prat Strike had disliked on sight and loathed even more every moment he learnt more about him.

Still doesn’t justify murder. Strike’s conscience pricked him.

Damnit. This was all Robin’s fault, making him feel guilty. As she had said, it wasn’t Miranda Green’s fault that her husband was awful.

And why had Miranda jumped to the conclusion that Robin was his wife? Probably all those years living with Sam Green, Strike mused. His type couldn’t conceive of a beautiful young woman like Robin being a genuine partner of something as hands-on and potentially dangerous as a detective agency. Why should his wife think otherwise?

From talking to Miranda, Strike had formed a clearer picture of Sam Green, his wife telling him more than she had realised. As Wardle had already told Strike, they had come to London from Sri Lanka some two years previously. She hadn’t wanted to leave her family and friends, but Sam had told her that his life was in danger; he had uncovered a big conspiracy at the company where he was working, a tea packing business, and people wanted to kill him.

“So much for the UN job,” Strike noted to himself.

They had arrived in London and everything was so expensive, so they ended up living in an overcrowded one-room bedsit. And then she got pregnant and Sam was busy with his important job.

Strike noted down the name of his employer, The South-East Asia Development Cooperative. The organisation that had sacked him for sexually harassing a colleague while his pregnant wife was at home, in a tiny room, tens of thousands of kilometres from family and friends, with no phone or internet because Sam had told her their building lacked connectivity.

Strike grunted to conceal his disgust.

Sam had then been head-hunted by the East Ham Refugee Council, Miranda told Strike. They were going through a restructure and wanted him to develop a media strategy. It was a very difficult job because many people were leaving and there was a lot of jealousy. One woman had even come to the flat one day while Sam was out, screaming and crying that Sam had destroyed the organisation. Miranda had been eight and a half months pregnant and, not knowing what to do, had locked the door and waited for Sam to return. Later Sam had told her that the woman had been sacked for incompetency and reported to the police for stalking.

“Do you remember her name?” Strike asked.

“Christine. Christine Egglebottom,” Miranda replied. “Do you think…? No, she would never have _dared_.”

Interesting, thought Strike. Miranda had said that Christine wouldn’t have dared to kill her husband. Not that she was incapable of it.

It had taken a long time for Sam to find another job after leaving the Refugee Council, Miranda told Strike. Sam had said that Christine and her friends had told a lot of lies, making it hard for anyone to employ him. They were evil, awful people.

“Hmph!” said Strike, non-committedly. So far, his sympathies were with the unknown Christine and her friends. But he couldn’t blame Miranda with a tiny new baby so far from home from taking her husband’s point of view.

Sam’s final job had been with the London branch of the European Gastrointestinal Association. The one he had been sacked from for arguing with a female manager. Although Sam had told Miranda that he had been sacked because he had unearthed financial irregularities and they didn’t want them exposed.

At this point, Strike paused in his notetaking. The European Gastrointestinal Association. He had a definite in there.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter today, introducing a couple of new characters and a tease but no real advancement on plot. This fic is writing itself. I still don't know who did it or why but after today I feel confident the story will reveal itself to me.

Strike pushed open the door and took the elevator to the third floor. The European Gastrointestinal Association shared a building with the European Gastrointestinal Research Institute and the UK Gastrointestinal Patient Advocacy Group. There was a shelf in the lift filled with leaflets advertising colostomy bags, advising doctors of a number to call for free samples and promising discounts on wholesale orders. Despite his long-standing friendship with Nick, Strike had never considered what a big business the inability to have a normal shit was.

There were worse things than missing half a leg, Strike decided.

At Reception, Strike asked to speak to Belinda Evans, the Association’s Community Engagement Co-ordinator. Nick had set up the meeting for him, as Strike knew he would, telling Belinda that Strike wanted to consult her on a case but providing no further details. After reassuring Belinda that it did not involve a member or patient looking to sue the Association but was simply an information-gathering exercise relating to a now-deceased former employee, she agreed, her curiosity piqued. She assumed it related to Lizzie Jones, an administration officer who had been killed crossing the road some months previously. She had already given a statement to the police but maybe Lizzie’s family had hired this detective to find out more. Belinda was always happy to talk to anyone but doubted she’d be able to tell him anything he didn’t yet know.

When Belinda first caught a glimpse of Strike, she let out an audible gasp. Tall, dark and – well, not handsome but certainly striking. She giggled a little at the appropriateness of his name.

“Shut up!” she told herself crossly. “This is work. He’s here to talk to you about poor Lizzie.”

Belinda slid on her professional mask, held out a hand and said briskly, “Mr Strike? I’m Belinda Evans. I’ve booked meeting room two for us. Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee or maybe a glass of water?”

Strike opted for water. Robin was the only other person who made tea strong enough for him and he had drunk enough bad instant coffee for a lifetime. Judging by the numerous take-away coffee cups he could see on desks around the office, this looked like the sort of place that provided its employees with only the cheapest and nastiest coffee; there was probably a five-kilogram tin, half-filled with stale instant, in the employee kitchen.

The meeting room was small with glass walls dotted with opaque patches, providing users with light, privacy and safety. While no-one outside could hear what was going on, those inside could be seen by the whole office. Strike approved. The design protected users both from assault by others and any false accusation of inappropriate behaviour.

“I assume you are here to talk about Lizzie,” Belinda said, sliding a tall glass of water towards Strike.

Strike paused, halfway through thanking her for the drink.

“Lizzie?” he asked.

“Nick told me you wanted to talk about a deceased former employee,” she said. “I can’t think who else it could be. Poor girl, she was only 20. The inquest is next month, isn’t it?”

Then seeing Strike’s puzzled face, Belinda added, “or did I get a mixed message about this meeting?” She started worrying again about what Strike wanted to talk to her about.

“It is about someone I believe is a former employee,” Strike said. “But not Lizzie. Did a Sam Green use to work for you?”

Belinda’s eyes narrowed, her lips pursed together into a tight narrow line. After a couple of seconds, she asked more calmly than she felt, “Are you telling me that Sam Green is dead?”

***********************

An hour later, Strike left the European Gastrointestinal Association, declining Belinda’s offer to take him to lunch by saying he had to meet up with his partner. Strike recognised the interested glances Belinda was sending his way and deliberately omitted the word ‘business’ before the word ‘partner’. Belinda was tall, good-looking and pleasant enough but too corporate for Strike’s taste. Besides, he wanted to discuss what he had learned from Belinda with Robin. He had surreptitiously checked his phone during a bathroom break to find a text from Robin informing him that the husband she had been trailing had disappeared into a strip club, so she’d asked Barclay to take over the case. She was back at their Denmark Street office finishing up paperwork and sending out invoices, at somewhat of a loose end. Strike grinned and texted Robin back, asking her to meet him for lunch at the Tottenham. He had a lot to tell her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having so much fun writing this story, with new characters and plots revealing themselves. Before today I knew nothing about Belinda or Lizzie; I didn't even know of their existence! I start my writing with a person or incident or observation from real life [eg: big business' shameless marketing of supplies for people suffering serious illness] and then it just goes its own way and becomes something new. I never previously considered myself an imaginative or creative writer but this safe space is allowing a part of myself I never knew to come out. In future chapters, I'm hoping to have a chance to incorporate some of the more complex relationship dynamics that is done so well by others on this site; all my previous writing experience has been on the succinct and factual side.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where the rating is changed to teen and up because of Strike's imagination (and language).

When Strike walked into the Tottenham, he saw Robin had already nabbed a table and had a pint waiting for him. She had a glass of white wine in front of her and was eating crisps.

“Thank God you texted me,” Robin greeted Strike. “I was getting bored out of my mind filling out the VAT forms. It’s such a pain not being able to get into the strip clubs. Maybe next time I could pretend to be applying for a job.”

An image of Robin gyrating around a pole wearing nothing but her underwear popped into Strike’s head. Followed by one of her sideling up to him demurely, asking if he wanted a private lap dance… Strike swallowed, closed his eyes and shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said firmly. “That is neither necessary nor safe. Barclay or I will take on those jobs.”

Robin grinned at Strike, noticing his discomfort. “That’s okay,” she said. “I don’t want to deprive you of your opportunity for fun.”

“Hmph. Well, I wouldn’t call it fun,” Strike said seriously. “I actually find those places kind of depressing. They fulfil a biological need but nowadays if I’m not with a woman and I have the need, I prefer to do it by myself.”

Why the fuck was he telling Robin this, Strike wondered.

“Shit! Sorry Robin. Totally inappropriate for me to say that.”

Robin, however, was looking neither shocked nor discomforted by this revelation. “Don’t worry,” she told Strike. “Always interesting to get the male perspective.”

“Anyway,” she added, deciding to steer the conversation onto safer territory, “You wanted to fill me in on your meeting at the Gastrointestinal Association?”

“In a minute,” Strike said. “I’ll just order us lunch. Your usual?”

***********************

As Strike polished off the last of Robin’s meal, blissfully unaware she had only ordered chips knowing he would eat them as well as his own, he told her about his meeting with Belinda.

“I think it’s safe to say that it was definitely the same Sam Green that we met,” he told Robin. “He was hired to redo their website but refused to follow the plans or structure Belinda had prepared, telling her that he knew better. The final straw was when he unilaterally sacked the female coder she had hired, telling Belinda that everyone knew men were better with computers than women.”

“Ouch,” Robin said.

“Yeah, well obviously he hadn’t seen you and me working,” said Strike. “Even a misogynistic moron like Sam would have to admit you run rings around me in cyberspace.”

Robin smiled, hiding the pleasure she felt at Strike casually acknowledging her expertise, clearly unthreatened by the fact there were some areas she far surpassed him in.

“So, Belinda sacked him, told him that he was not the right fit for the project, and asked him to leave right away. Which he did, eventually, after arguing with another woman in the office, a 20-year-old called Lizzie Jones. Belinda doesn’t know what he said to her but said Lizzie was crying and rushed out into the street and straight into the path of a bus. She was killed instantly.”

“Oh my God!” Robin gasped. “How horrible!”

“Belinda clearly holds Sam responsible for Lizzie’s death, morally if not legally,” Strike continued. “But I’d swear she didn’t know anything about Sam’s death before I spoke to her. She was shocked but not sad to hear that he had died. And she admitted to me on a ‘strictly between ourselves, I will deny it if officially questioned’ basis that she had made one of the calls to the terrorist hotline.”

“Interesting,” Robin said, adding, “Did she have any basis for the call.”

“No,” said Strike. “She told me that having failed in her bid to dig up any dirt on Sam, she wanted the professionals to have a go. So, I let her know on a ‘strictly between ourselves, I will deny it if officially questioned’ basis that they had found nothing.”

Strike stretched his arms, giving Robin a good view of his hairy bellybutton as it peeked out between the buttons on his shirt. Robin had a sudden urge to bury her nose in it; not exactly a sexual desire but a longing for closeness and comfort. She smacked down the impulse and said to Strike, “Is there anything you particularly want me to do this afternoon? I’m practically caught up on the paperwork.”

“That’s a first for us,” Strike observed. “How do you feel about seeing Miranda again? We’ve been focussing on Sam's workplaces but, as Wardle said, he probably didn’t do anything bad enough there to explain a planned and careful murder. Find out who else he’s associated with over the past two years and a bit more about his life in Sri Lanka. I’m sure he didn’t miraculously turn into a prat when he landed in London. I’ll check in with Barclay and see if he needs me to take over, then I’ll call our contact in forensics. I'll see if Wardle is up for a beer after work. I’ll call you around six if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” said Robin.

“I’m sure Miranda could tell us more but she might be more willing to tell you rather than me.”


	7. Chapter 7

As Robin approached the address she had got from Strike’s notes, she saw Miranda pushing a pram, walking away from the building. She appeared to be heading towards a park at the end of the street. Robin decided to walk straight to the park herself. She had no desire to disrupt the young widow’s routine any more than necessary.

Robin settled herself on a bench near the duck pond and watched Miranda walk towards the rotunda. She approached a dark-haired man and fell into conversation with him. After about 10 minutes, Miranda left the man and headed towards the playground where she sat on a swing with her daughter on her lap, gently rocking, tears rolling down her face.

Robin was indecisive as to what to do next. Should she try and speak to Miranda now? She decided to walk by the playground and see if Miranda noticed her. It turned out to be a good idea.

“Mrs Strike,” Miranda called out. “I didn’t know you lived near here.”

Robin stopped. “I don’t,” she said. “I came here hoping I might be able to ask you a few more questions.”

“And I’m not Mrs Strike,” she added. “I’m Robin. Robin Ellacott. Please call me Robin.”

Robin sat down in the swing next to Miranda.

“What else do you want to know?” Miranda asked. “I thought I had told your husb – Mr Strike – everything.”

“Cormoran - Mr Strike - is looking into your husband’s past workplaces but I’m sure Sam – and you – had a life outside work,” Robin said.

Miranda looked scared and Robin decided to take another tack.

“Your daughter is very pretty,” she said, smiling at the child on Miranda’s lap. “How old is she?”

“Sara is 10 months old,” Miranda said. “She’s pulling herself up to stand” she added proudly.

“Do you have any family in London?” Robin asked.

A shadow crossed Miranda’s face.

“Not living in London,” Miranda said. “But my brother is visiting. He wants me to go back to Sri Lanka with him.”

“Will you?” asked Robin.

“I don’t want to. But I don’t know what else to do,” Miranda answered glumly.

Robin remained silent. Eventually Miranda started speaking again.

“If it was just me, it wouldn’t matter so much. But there is Sara. It is hard to be a girl in my family.” A tear rolled down her cheek.

“If I go back to Sri Lanka I will be a burden on my family and they will take it out on Sara. But I don’t have any friends in London and that is hard too.”

Robin empathised with Miranda. She had come to live in London knowing no-one but her fiancé, and all her friends – well, acquaintances – had been his friends. When she had left Mathew after a year of painful marriage, her only friend in London had been Vanessa, a policewoman she had met through work. And Strike too, she thought, although that was different because he was her boss and she was terrified of revealing any weakness that might make him reconsider their partnership. But after those first few terrible weeks, she had started making her own friends and Strike had shown her in a hundred different little ways that he valued her contribution and he wasn’t going to sack her because she had PTSD – although he insisted she receive counselling and even paid for the sessions out of the firm’s budget.

“It might seem hard now but you can make new friends,” Robin said. “Do you know anyone, even as an acquaintance, through your late husband?”

Miranda looked sulky and a little ashamed.

“No,” she said. “Sam didn’t like me meeting his friends. I think he thought they would know I was damaged.”

Robin looked at the beautiful woman next to her with a puzzled expression on her face.

“Damaged? Whatever do you mean?”

Miranda sighed. “I will tell you. Because you are kind and I don’t think you will blame me. But come back to my flat and have a cup of tea. The wind has ears, even here.”

**********************

Miranda had been talking for nearly an hour when Robin’s phone beeped with a message.

“Sorry,” Robin said. “I must have forgotten to set it to silent.”

As she picked up the phone to change the settings, she noticed the message was from Strike and decided to read it.

“Have buggered my leg. Home and nothing in the fridge. Could you pick up a takeaway on the way back to the office? C”

Robin looked at Miranda apologetically. “I really need to reply to this,” she said gently. “I won’t be long.”

She pressed a button to call Strike back.

“Cormoran, what’s up?”

Miranda watched curiously, almost hungrily, as Robin listened to Strike.

“I’m with Mrs Green now but will swing by straight afterwards. Curry okay? Anything else you need?”

“Rest up and take your painkillers. I’ll be there shortly.”

As Robin clicked off the phone, she saw Miranda staring at her.

“What phone is that?” Miranda asked.

Robin looked at the beat-up phone in her hands. “An iPhone 6, I think.”

“Sam told me that phones wouldn’t work in this building,” Miranda said flatly.

Robin swallowed, reflecting on everything Miranda had shared with her that afternoon.

“I think Sam may have been… mistaken,” she said gently. “Any mobile phone should work here.”

Looking at Miranda’s face, Robin added “Do you want me to help you get a phone?”

Miranda nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Cormoran is just going to have to wait for his curry, thought Robin.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where the plot is put on hiatus while Strike and Robyn indulge in some mutual pining, each secretly taking pleasure in the other's body as Robin comforts an injured Strike.

It was nearly 6pm before Robin made it back to Denmark Street. The office was dark so she continued up the stairs to Cormoran's apartment, confident the waft of curry would alert him to her presence. But his door was closed and there was no response to her knock. 

"Cormoran!" she called. "I have your favourite curry."

Still no response. Robin tried the door but it was locked. Sighing, she pulled out the emergency key he had entrusted to her some months ago but never previously used.

No wonder Miranda thinks we're married, Robin thought. I have Cormoran's pin number, computer password and key to his apartment. I am the first person he calls in an emergency. He trusts me. The only thing we don't do is sleep together, she thought ruefully. Still, why would I risk all that we have by jumping on him? He probably doesn't see me that way. I'm just a more convenient Ilsa or less neurotic Lucy. 

Robin knew how much Cormoran loved his childhood friend and sister and felt very grateful knowing he counted her amongst them. Still, she most definitely did not want Strike as a fourth brother in her life. 

"Cormoran, it's Robin. I'm coming in," she called out. Maybe he was having a shower. Well, he couldn't say she hadn't warned him. Robin pushed open the door. 

Cormoran was sitting in a chair facing the door with his stump propped up on another chair. A bloody towel and melted ice-pack had slipped to the floor. He was pale and breathing slowly and deliberately. He looked at Robin but did not say anything. 

Robin instantly recognised the signs. Cormoran was fighting off a panic attack. A bad one. She dropped her bags on the kitchen table and knelt down in front of him, grasping his hands in hers, the same way he had done so often for her. 

"Cormoran. It's Robin here. You are safe. You are not alone."

Strike looked at her despairingly. He hated showing any weakness Robin knew. "Thanks for the curry," he gasped. "Please go now."

Robin stretched her arms around Strike and then pulled his head down to her shoulder. She stroked his head and rubbed his back, enjoying the warmth and closeness of his body, if not the reason for it. 

"I'm not going anywhere," she said kindly, but in a tone that let him know she meant it. 

**************

After a while, Strike pulled away from Robin. His face was still pale but he was breathing more normally. He had become hyperaware of Robin's hands stroking his body, her face so close that her soft hair was tickling his neck, her breasts pushing against his chest. He didn't trust himself to remain in her warm comforting embrace any longer.

"I'm starving," he said, trying to speak normally. "What did you get?

Robin stood up. Her legs were numb from kneeling so long. 

"I'm glad you are feeling better," she said dryly. 

Robin spooned the takeaway onto two plates and, as Strike began eating, took a look at his stump. It was bruised, swollen and bleeding but the cuts were superficial. She cleaned it with a fresh towel, wiped the wounds with antiseptic and placed a fresh ice-pack on it. 

"Youch!" yelled Strike. 

"Sorry," Robin said. "It had to be done."

Strike grunted an acknowledgement. "Sit down and stop fussing," he growled. "And eat something. We can't afford to be both out of action."

"Yes boss," Robin answered, a twinkle in her eye. Secretly she was relieved. They were back to their usual routine of Cormoran eating nearly everything in sight and then worrying she wasn't eating enough. She now had a chance to look at him properly. There were no new cuts or bruises on his face, no scratches on his knuckles. Which meant he hadn't been fighting. 

"Can you tell me what happened?" she asked between bites. 

Cormoran flushed red. "Slipped," he mumbled. "Mustn't have secured my leg properly. It came off and I just collapsed. Smashed the stump against a drain."

Robin winced. "How did you get home?"

"Called Barclay. He got a cab and somehow managed to drag me up the stairs and got me settled. He wanted to take me to hospital but there's no point. Nothing to do but ice and rest. I promised I'd call you and he told me he was going to follow up a lead from this morning's job. I told him that we wouldn't be reimbursing him for multiple visits to the club without good reason. He told me the only reason he had to go back today was because I had interrupted his research."

Robin snorted. "I can just imagine the research he was doing! I look forward to reading his reports." She started clearing the plates away, passing Strike his crutches. 

"Do you want to have the first shower or should I? It's been a long day for both of us and I still have to fill you in on my interview with Miranda."

"Oh you can go first if you want," began Strike.Then, "Hang on, why are you having a shower here?"

"Because I am staying the night with you," said Robin calmly. 

"On the camp bed," she added, in response to Strike's startled expression. "Don't worry, I'm not going to jump you. I just want to be here for you, if you need me."

"I do not need a nurse," said Strike angrily. "My leg -"

"is not the problem," finished Robin. "You are not well and I'm not leaving you tonight to deal with it alone."

She took a deep breath and fixed a steely glare at Strike as he began protesting again. 

"Someone who I deeply respect, who I love and care for, once told me that pretending you are okay when you aren't isn't a strength," Robin began. "He helped me, and continues to help me, deal with my PTSD and panic attacks. I hope you will also listen to him and allow me to help you when you need it."

Strike wondered whether he was hallucinating. Had Robin just said that she loved him? 

"Umm, if that's how you feel," he began. 

Shit. There was no way Robin had said that. She had said she wanted to help him with his panic attack, that's all. Truth be told, he didn't want to be alone now that Robin had offered to stay. She was so kind and warm as well as insanely beautiful. She knew and understood him and didn't judge. And it would be safe; he was in too much pain to worry that his libido would take over his body tonight. He capitulated. 

"You can have the first shower," Strike said huskily. "There are clean towels in the dresser."


	9. One hell of a distraction

"Lucky I left my gym gear in the office," said Robin, as she came out of Strike's tiny bathroom towel-dying her hair."

She was wearing black leggings and an emerald green crop top that showed the outline of her breasts. Strike drew a deep breath. Robin noticed his embarrassment.

"Sorry Cormoran, I guess this is a bit skimpy outside the gym. I'll put on one of your t-shirts."

_Fuck_, thought Strike. _She knows I'm perving_. He swallowed, watching her slip her perfect arms into an old grey t-shirt. _I'm never washing that again_, he thought hazily. 

"See. I'm practically a nun," laughed Robin, turning around to show she was now well-covered by Strike's oversized t-shirt. "It's safe to look now."

_No, it's not_, thought Strike. He took a deep breath, steadied himself with a crutch and stood up. "I'll have my shower now."

***********

When he came out of the bathroom, he saw Robin had set up the camp bed next to his and was sitting cross-legged on his sleeping bag, draped in his t-shirt. Shorn of make-up and with her hair up in a pony tail, she looked even younger than usual. Strike felt like a pervert just being in the same room as her. 

"I'll sleep on the camp bed," he growled. 

"You will not!" retorted Robin, fire in her eyes. "I will not have your recovery delayed because of your misplaced chivalry. I'm here to make sure you get a good night's sleep. You are sleeping in your bed tonight."

_Oh Robin, I don't think I'll be getting any sleep with you next to me_, thought Strike. But he obediently hopped over to the bed and pulled himself up. Robin noticed him wincing as his stump scraped the covers.

"Crap, you're bleeding again," she said, grabbing a towel. "I'll clean it up."

Strike closed his eyes as he leaned against the bed headrest. _He looks so ill_, Robin thought.

"My leg bleeding is a trigger," Strike told the room. "I know it's just a little cut that will heal but..." His voice trailed off as he started breathing deeply and deliberately. Robin scrambled up and grabbed his hands again. 

"Breathe with me. You are in London in your flat. You are sitting on your bed. You are safe. Everything is going to be all right," she murmured.

*************

Strike ran his fingers through Robin’s hair, marveling at its softness. She had fallen asleep against his chest and her weight was pressing on him awkwardly. 

"Robin," he said, gently, reluctantly pushing on her shoulder. "You need to move. My back."

"Of course." Robin crawled off Strike and he readjusted himself, wincing in pain.

"I need some distraction," he said. "Tell me about your interview with Miranda this afternoon."

Robin tried to shift her brain back into professional mode. She felt guilty. Cormoran was injured and unwell and she had just fallen asleep on him.

“Right then. Miranda. I felt very sorry for her. She grew up in a very repressive family. She was the youngest – she has an older sister and three older brothers. They are all married and have families in Sri Lanka. Her father made all the decisions in the family and controlled everything. He treated her mum like a servant, doling out money every week and questioning all her purchases.”

“Hmph. Well that explains why she put up with Sam,” grunted Cormoran. “It’s all she knew.”

“When Miranda was 15, she had a boyfriend, one of the local shop assistants. It sounds like it was very innocent. They held hands and he gave her sweets whenever she went into the shop. They tried to keep it secret but one day were sprung having a kiss and all hell broke loose. Miranda was pulled out of school and basically told she was a slut who had shamed her family.

“Her father told her that she had to get married but refused to let her marry her boyfriend because he was Tamil. Miranda’s family are Muslim. So, he looked around for a husband for her but none of the ‘good’ families wanted Miranda because she had had a Tamil boyfriend. Eventually he found Sam who was also struggling to find a wife because he was short and poor and basically a bit of a dick.”

Strike raised an eyebrow. “Miranda said that?” he asked.

“Well, not the dick part,” admitted Robin. “But she did tell me he was short and poor. Anyway, they married when Miranda was 16 and her father wrangled a job for Sam in a tea packing company. He started in the warehouse and managed to manoeuvre himself into a desk job processing orders and updating the website.

“Miranda’s wedding night sounds like it was an absolute nightmare,” Robin added. “She didn’t bleed, and Sam assumed she wasn’t a virgin and beat her. He told her she had come to him damaged.”

Strike made a sound of disgust.

“Exactly. The whole bleeding thing is bullshit anyway,” Robin continued. “I didn’t bleed the first time I had sex. Some women just don’t.”

Strike took a deep breath and tried to not think about Robin having sex, especially not about her being deflowered by that git of an ex-husband.

“Probably all your horse riding,” he grunted.

“Matt never said anything. He was probably relieved. He never wanted to touch me when I was on my period…”

Robin’s voice trailed off. Shit! Why the fuck was she telling Cormoran this?

"Sorry, too much information." Robin tried to laugh it off. 

Strike raised an eyebrow.

“So, Matt's not a vampire then?” he said, a twinkle in his eyes.

“What?” asked Robin – and then, “Oh!” She gasped as she realised what he meant.

“Cormoran! Have you ever…” Robin stopped herself before finishing the sentence.

_Have you ever gone down on a woman on her period, Cormoran?_

Strike had guessed where Robin's question was going and wagged his eyebrows impishly at her.

“A gentleman never kisses and tells, Robin.”

Robin turned around and grabbed a pillow and threw it at Strike. He responded by pulling the pillow from behind his back and throwing it directly at Robin’s midriff. She collapsed in a fit of giggles.

“Oh God,” she crowed. “This is just like all those slumber parties we had as teenagers! We’re even talking about _periods_!”

Strike looked at her fondly. _You are no teenager Robin_, he thought.

Robin pulled herself up and grabbed one of the bags she had dumped on Strike’s table.

“We even have a midnight feast,” she giggled, tipping out a pile of Twix and packet of Tim Tams.

“Did you ever sneak a beer at your midnight feasts?" Strike asked hopefully. 

“Nope,” said Robin. “And I wouldn't with that warning on your painkillers,” she said, tossing him the box. “But I will make you a cup of tea.”

Strike closed his eyes.

“You are one hell of a distraction, Ellacott.”


	10. Breakfast at Gino's

Twenty minutes after taking his painkillers, Strike was fast asleep. Robin sat on the end of the bed for a while watching him, but his face was peaceful and he appeared to be relaxed. She would have liked nothing more than to slip under the covers next to him but this was not a good idea. She would not be able to resist cuddling up, touching him, disturbing his sleep and possibly hurting him further. She allowed herself to stroke his arm and place a chaste kiss on his forehead.

“Goodnight Cormoran,” she murmured. “Sweet dreams.”

She wiggled into Strike’s sleeping bag, enveloping herself in his comforting scent. _What a day_, she thought.

Two minutes later she was asleep.

********************

Robin awoke the next morning to the smell of cigarette smoke. A steaming cup of tea was sitting on the dresser next to her. She sat up yawning and was relieved to see Cormoran up, partially dressed, smoking, dunking a biscuit in a cup of tea and looking far more like his usual self.

“I thought you were going to sleep all morning,” he said. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear me crashing around.”

“Some night guard I turned out to be,” muttered Robin.

“You were exactly what I needed last night Ellacott,” Strike said. “Thank you for insisting on staying. I enjoyed our slumber party very much.”

Robin groaned and put her face in her hands. “God, I said a lot of shit. I don’t even have the excuse of being pissed at the time.”

Strike manoeuvred his way to the camp bed and sat down heavily. He grasped Robin’s chin and tilted up her head, wanting her to see as well as hear him.

“Robin, I asked you to distract me and like everything else you do, you did it perfectly in your own unique Robin way. You made me forget for a while why you were here. You made me feel safe.”

Warmth flew through Robin’s body.

“Glad I could help,” she said. “How are things this morning?”

“Much better. Although I will be be on crutches for the next few days. We’re going to have to rejig the work roster.”

Robin nodded.

“Of course. Barclay can take on Horny Husband; I’ll follow Lady Lush and you can do all those company searchers for our Flaky Financier and man the office for the next few days. Andy says he’s available for back-up, but I spoke to his wife and don’t think we should give him anything too strenuous for a while.”

Strike nodded in agreement. Andy had been knocked out with a bad virus and there was always the risk this could trigger another relapse of his MS.

“If you are feeling OK now, I’d better head back to my flat. I’ll come back to the office after I get changed.”

“Not before breakfast,” Strike said. “I owe you at least that. We’ll go to Gino’s; no-one cares what you wear there.” Gino’s breakfast clientele ranged from office workers starting the day to blue-collar shift workers and prostitutes finishing off their night.

“Thanks,” yawned Robin. “That’d be good. Umm, can I borrow a jumper to put over these leggings? My clothes from yesterday got a bit bloody.”

********************

Strike sat across the table from Robin, watching her eat and wondering what force in the universe had sent this dazzling creature into his life. While the carnal side of him had fantasised about waking up with her in the bed, and he longed to worship her body with his, he was determined to never, ever do anything that would jeopardise their friendship or the trust she put in him. Not to mention the business.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said Robin.

Strike startled. “Just drifting,” he said. “Did Miranda have anything useful to say apart from confirming the general opinion that Sam was a prize prick?”

“Not really,” replied Robin. “Sam kept her isolated. You should have seen her face when I was talking to you yesterday and she realised that phones worked in her building. I ended up taking her to Tesco’s to buy a pre-paid mobile; I even found a plan that included 500 minutes of international calls for £30.

“And yes, I know we are not social workers,” Robin added defensively. This was a regular point of contention between Strike and herself. He maintained that their job was to obtain information and keep a professional distance; Robin, kind-hearted and helpful by nature, was equally adamant that there were benefits in pointing people in the direction they might find additional supports.

“It’s to our advantage to be able to contact her by phone,” Robin said.

Strike grunted, knowing she had a point.

“I’m going to drop off a list with the contact details for local supports, the Women’s Advice Line, etc. And that’s it,” Robin said. “Although I might need your masculine bulk when you are back on both feet. One of Miranda’s brothers is hanging around trying to convince her to go back to Sri Lanka and she’s not keen on the idea. I suggested she tell him that she can’t go until after the inquest, which is still weeks away, which will give her more time to look at all her options. Judging by her reaction, I think she’d prefer to deliver the message in the presence of an authoritative man.”

What Miranda had actually said was, “could your husband speak to my brother?” By this stage, Robin had given up trying to convince her that she and Strike weren’t married.

“My masculine bulk is yours to command,” said Strike, hoping his ironic tone hid the truth of this statement.

_If only_, thought Robin, longingly looking at Strike’s broad chest and arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise to get back to the actual mystery soon!


	11. Chapter 11

Two days later, Robin burst into the office holding up her phone in triumph.

Strike was on his phone, so she subdued her excitement and went to put on the kettle for tea.

“I, personally, would very much prefer Mrs Green to stay in London until after the inquest,” Strike was saying.

“I certainly can’t _compel _her…”

“It’s an unexplained death so there has to be an inquest and it would be helpful for your sister to be there in case there are any questions.”

“No, the investigating officers have not indicated to me they have any concerns about your sister. It’s just the way things are done here. Thank you so much for understanding.”

Strike put down the phone and grinned at Robin, who was holding out a steaming cup of dark tea for him.

“It turns out my masculine bulk was not needed, just my masculine voice.”

Robin laughed.

“I’ll have to find another use for your masculine bulk,” she said cheekily.

_Please do_, thought Strike huskily. He pulled himself back into work mode.

“Okay Ellacott, spill the beans. I can tell you have something for me.”

Robin waved her phone.

“Look at the photos I got today of Lady Lush. I think we have her.”

Strike whistled as he scrolled through the photos of a well-preserved 40-something woman in a tiny pink bikini grasping a champagne flute while a balding middle-aged man sucked on her toes.

“Very reminiscent of Sarah Ferguson,” he observed, referring to the scandal that had blown apart the Royal Family some decades earlier.

“Well done Robin! How did you get them?”

He could tell she was bursting with pride and he wanted to watch the joy on her face as she shared her investigative prowess.

“Mmm. You know how every Wednesday she goes to that hotel but we never got anything more than photos of her and Bald Banker entering and leaving separately?”

Strike nodded.

“Well I rang up the hotel pretending to be Bald Banker’s new secretary all in a flutter because I had misplaced his diary and I was sure he had a booking there. The clerk was very understanding and confirmed today’s booking – and also told me that as such a valued guest he was going to be surprised with a bottle of Don Perignon today and asked whether I thought he would prefer it left in his room or served to him as he relaxed by the pool. Of course, I nominated the pool.

“I then got a map of the hotel and saw that the beauty salon was located right next to the pool. I rang up the salon as Venetia Hall and made a booking for a pedicure at what I guessed the best time would be. When I got to the salon, I pretended I needed the loo and was able to sneak out and have a look. As you can see, they were being quite brazen.”

Strike looked at her impressed. “You really are amazing,” he said.

“And lucky,” said Robin. “I wouldn’t have got much if the clerk hadn’t given me the option of nominating champagne by the pool.”

“You make your luck and take advantage of every opportunity,” Strike said seriously. “Never sell yourself short, Robin.”

“Of course, I then had to go back and have the pedicure,” Robin added. “They did a good job, don’t you think?”

She pointed her foot at Strike, giving him a legitimate opportunity to admire her toes which were painted the same shade of pink as her lips. He had an almost uncontrollable urge to sink to his knees and kiss them, possibly inspired by the photos of Bald Banker and Lady Lush.

“Very nice,” he growled, turning away from her. “Don’t forget to claim the cost. It’s a legitimate business expense.”

Robin sighed. “I’m not looking forward to showing his Lordship the pictures. I know he engaged us for this but it’s always unpleasant when their worst suspicions are confirmed.”

“I’ll do that bit,” Strike said.

“Cormoran, you don’t have to,” began Robin.

“It’s not altruism Ellacott,” Strike said. “I need your legs for another job.”

Robin brightened considerably.

“I had a call from Belinda from the Gastrointestinal Association. You’ll never believe who she ended up hiring to replace Sam.”

Robin looked enquiringly at Strike.

“Christine Egglebottom, one of the women he forced out at the Refugee Council! Belinda mentioned meeting with me and learning of Sam’s death and it seems the two ladies had quite a long chat. Christine’s happy to talk to us but it has to be at the Association, and even though I’m going stir crazy here, I don’t think I’m quite up to a trip across town.”

Robin beamed at Strike. “Don’t tell me you are finally taking care of yourself,” she said cheekily.

He ignored her. “So, if you could please set up a meeting with her tomorrow, I’ll meet with his Lordship and then we can catch up and compare notes.”

“Now let’s go to the pub. After your stellar work with Lady Lush, dinner is most definitely on me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are finally heading back to the case, with Strike and Robin determidly compartmentalising their lust for each other to focus on work.


	12. Chapter 12

The lift in the Gastronomical Association’s building was advertising anti-chaffing cream this week. Sample sachets were attached to leaflets proclaiming its healing benefits and providing a number to ring for wholesale orders. Robin picked one of the leaflets up, absently wondering if it might help with Strike’s leg.

“Robin Ellacott?” A brisk, professional voice helped Robin to refocus. “I’m Belinda Evans. I met with your colleague last week.”

“Thanks for seeing me at such short notice,” Robin replied politely.

“Thanks for being willing to come to us. We are flat out this week. We have a major conference coming up and 2000 showbags to pack. I see you found the Calmoseptine samples.”

“Hah?” queried Robin.

Belinda pointed to the leaflet in her hand.

“Oh sorry,” said Robin. “I shouldn’t have picked it up.”

Belinda laughed. “We have boxes and boxes of them lying around the place. Take as many as you like!”

“I was just wondering if it might be useful for a friend of mine who uses a prosthetic,” explained Robin.

“Possibly,” said Belinda. “Can’t hurt to try. It’s sold over the counter and the manufacturer has authority to market it for use on babies so it’s safe. Here, take a box,” she said, shoving one towards Robin.

They had arrived at a conference room where five women were systematically filling paper bags embossed with the Gastronomical Association’s logo with all manner of samples, leaflets and promotional goodies.

“Christine,” called Belinda. “Your visitor has arrived. Take her down to the café. I booked meeting room 2 but the banners arrived this morning and I had nowhere else to put them.”

An auburn-haired woman in her 30s strolled up and shook Robin’s hand. Belinda had moved to the other side of the room and was talking to one of the other women.

“I am so glad you are here,” Christine whispered to Robin. “Let’s get out before she ropes you into stuffing showbags too. Here, take one to put your box in.”

The two women quickly headed for the lift. Robin felt like she was helping Christine play truant from school.

****************

Robin and Christine took their coffees to a quiet booth near the back of the café.

“I can’t believe Sam is dead,” said Christine. “I thought you needed a soul to die. Is it really murder?”

“The police are describing it as an unexplained death,” Robin replied cautiously.

“You’re not police,” Christine said. “Why are you involved?”

“We’re investigating as a favour to the widow. She’s pretty isolated.”

Christine looked uncomfortable. “Yeah, I can’t imagine Sam would have encouraged her to have friends or a career. Did she tell you about the time I came to their flat?”

Robin nodded.

“I feel pretty bad about that. She wasn’t responsible. But I was so angry and upset with what Sam had done.”

Robin gently interrupted. “Can you start from the beginning and tell me how you came to know Sam?”

Christine grimaced. “Would you believe me if I told you that at first I thought he was going to save the East Ham Refugee Council?”

“Like so many other organisations, the Council was in a bit of a financial pickle. We were doing great work but had lost a major government grant and donations were down. We knew there had to be cuts and probably some job losses. Management should have sat us down and been upfront; instead they gave us Sam.

“A lot of our clients are Sri Lankan refugees, mostly Tamils. Sam was presented to us as someone who had worked for the UN in Sri Lanka and who had great media skills. We thought he might be able to secure us some international funding or get us some positive publicity that would help with donations. We soon realised we were badly mistaken.

“Sam didn’t give a shit about the refugees. We had a new family come into the office and afterwards he was sprouting all this racist, derogatory shit about Tamils. We were all too shocked at the time to say anything.

“We knew the UN story was bullshit; Sam knew nothing and, worse, was not interested in learning anything. Instead of meeting with potential donors or funders or media people, he focused on micromanaging people who had done their job well for many years. We spent more time filling in spreadsheets to account for every minute than doing our work.

“Then Sam just started moving us all around, for no reason, just to show us he could. My job included maintaining the website and he moved me to a desk with no computer connection, facing a blank wall with my back to him. So of course, I couldn’t do my job properly and he started inefficiency procedures against me. I couldn’t get anyone above him to listen. I think they wanted him to destroy us.

“When Megan, one of my colleagues, came back from maternity leave he started on her. He’d deliberately schedule last minute meetings just before she was due to pump her breast milk and she’d sit there in absolute agony, leaking. He kept on going on about how his wife, who was pregnant, was going to stay home and care for his son properly. He was strutting around like a rooster and used our organisation’s connections with an insurance company to get a life insurance policy cheap for his unborn son.

“I finally lost it when I came in one day and found him meeting with an expensive marketing firm to redesign the Council’s logo. We had all these problems and he wanted to redesign the fucking logo? That was the day I went to his flat, which was such a stupid thing to do. I resigned the next day before he could sack me.”

Robin took a deep breath. “That sounds most unpleasant. Can I just ask you – remember I’m not police and anything you say is confidential and you can deny if officially questioned, but we really want to clear up a few things – did you ever make any calls about Sam to the national terrorist hotline?”

Christine grinned sheepishly. “I did. I think we all did. He was just such an arsehole and I wanted him to get a taste of what being harassed felt like. I was also hoping they might find something on him. If anyone deserves to be deported, it was him. I told them he was fundraising for Tamil insurgents. He would have hated anyone thinking that.”

“Did you have any dealings with Sam after you left the Council or know anyone who might have had dealings with him?” asked Robin.

“Sorry, no,” said Christine. “Your colleague has already spoken to Belinda about what he did here but that was before my time.”

“I still feel bad about upsetting Sam’s wife,” Christine added. “I wish I could apologise to her. I only had to deal with Sam at work and look what he did to me. I can’t imagine how bad it would have been to be married and living with him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, full disclosure time. This is a work of fiction. There is, to my knowledge, no East Ham Refugee Council or European Gastrointestinal Association. I have never worked for a refugee council or abused the wife of a manager, no matter how much of an arsehole he was. But I did once have to deal with someone very much like Sam in the workplace and have taken a certain amount of satisfaction killing him off in this fic. Aside from Christine’s description above, which is sadly pretty much what happened, the rest is pure fiction.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike reflects on his dinner with Robin; Wardle has a bit of fun tormenting Strike and we learn a little bit about Sam's secret life!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where I manage to get both fluff and case fic into the one chapter!

Shortly after Robin left the office to meet Christine, Strike made his way to Gino’s where he was meeting Wardle. Strike was keen to know what the police may have found out about Sam’s life in Sri Lanka while Wardle, fresh from interviewing Miranda, had his own reasons for wanting to see Strike.

Strike had deliberately arrived early so he could secure a comfortable table outside and wasn’t forced to navigate on his crutches in front of Wardle. Not that Wardle would say anything or think less of him just because his disability was on display, but Strike had his pride and no desire to have any even a moment of their conversation derailed by his missing leg. He ordered one of Gino’s famous long black coffees, lit a cigarette and thought about his dinner with Robin the previous night.

Even before she had finished her first wine, she had been giddy, high on the well-deserved pride she had from her success with the Lady Lush case. Strike hadn’t thought she could be any more beautiful but looking at her, able to relax and enjoy her work now that Matthew’s censorious eyes were out of the picture, he realised he had been wrong. Why would anyone ever want to reign in that joyous spirit?

She had been very physical last night, touching his arm and shoulder and chest as she spoke, lying her head on his shoulder when the second glass of wine had kicked in, grasping him around the waist when they decided to walk (or in his case, hop) to the nearby ice-cream store for dessert. It had been agony, the sweetest agony he had ever experienced. He wouldn’t have missed a moment of it. And as for that enthusiastic kiss she had given him at the end of the night… that had required some very dexterous twisting of his body and use of his crutch as a barrier to ensure she didn’t become aware of his own enthusiasm!

“So, what are you so happy about?” Wardle had approached the table and sat down opposite Strike without him even noticing. Shit, he was really off his game today.

Wardle was grinning. “And here I was assuming Mrs Green had got the wrong end of the stick.”

“Hah?” asked Strike.

“Interviewed Miranda Green yesterday. _Your wife_” – Wardle emphasise the last two words – “made quite an impression on her.”

“What are you talking about?” Strike was getting irritated.

Wardle was enjoying himself, needling his friend. “Every second sentence was about how Mrs Strike was so kind and so understanding. I assume she was referring to Robin. We, of course, had to take a more formal approach.”

Strike shook his head.

“There seems to be some cultural misunderstanding,” he said.

“And how kind you must be, letting your wife go shopping when you wanted her to make dinner!” Wardle was laughing now.

“What the…?” Strike stopped as he suddenly realised how the situation had been misunderstood.

“I bunged up my leg,” he said through gritted teeth, pointing to his crutches, “and asked Robin, who was interviewing Mrs Green at the time, to pick up some takeaway for me on her way back to the office. Which is exactly what I would have asked you or Andy or Barclay to do if I knew you were coming to the office. She brought me some curry and helped me clean up.”

Strike decided not to mention that Robin had stayed the night, albeit on his camp bed. Wardle would not understand. Hell, he didn’t understand either. He decided to redirect the conversation.

“How’s the investigation going?”

“Slowly,” Wardle admitted. “Sam doesn’t seem to have had any close friends or family here in London. He was trying to run some sort of media consultancy business but had few clients. He spent a lot of time online. Forensics finally finished with his computer the other day. He had covered his tracks well, but it looks like Mr Green favoured gay porn sites, including ones that enabled hook-ups. It’s quite possible there is something there.”

Strike nodded. He was too experienced an investigator to be surprised by that revelation. Self-loathing explained a lot.

“Did you get anything from overseas?”

“It seems that Mrs Green’s father organised and financed their move to London. Sam had been caught fiddling the books where he was working, and Mrs Green’s father was keen to avoid a scandal. Sam had also been involved with a gang that harassed Tamils, a minority ethnic group, living in his town. He was believed to be behind the bashing of a local shopkeeper – instigating others, not doing it himself – but nothing was ever proven. I don’t think the case was investigated very thoroughly.”

“So, your turn now,” said Wardle. “Have you found anything?”

“Ample evidence Sam was a prize prick,” said Strike. “But you knew that already. I’ve spoken to one of his former colleagues and Robin is speaking to another today. I’m fairly certain that MI5 are right about those phone calls; Sam seems to have had a special ability to infuriate women he encountered but we’ve uncovered no indication that he was even remotely involved in any terrorist planning or activity.

“We’ve been a bit busy focussing on our paying clients this week," Strike added. "This afternoon I’ve got to tell one of them that we have evidence his wife is definitely having an affair. All in all, I’d rather be facing Sam’s murderer, whoever he or she is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing the fluff. And conceiving Sam as a repressed self-hating homosexual.


	14. Fluff, banter and shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the title says.

As Robin climbed the stairway to the office, she narrowly missed being pushed down the steps by a well-dressed but obviously agitated middle-age man. More experienced than the first day she had arrived as a temporary secretary, when Cormoran had accidentally bumped her down and then saved her on these same stairs, Robin knew to flatten herself against the bannister and hold on for dear life. The man appeared to not even see her as he stumbled distractedly downwards. Robin peaked cautiously into the office and was relieved to see Cormoran up on his crutches and looking ruefully at her.

“Oh good, you’re okay,” he said. “Just broke the news to his Lordship.”

“He appeared to be quite upset,” Robin observed.

“Interestingly, not so much with his wife as with the man she was with. It turns out Bald Banker is a friend. His Lordship seems to be more upset about losing him than his wife!”

“Hmm,” murmured Robin. “That could very well be the case. I got the impression from when I spoke to him that he was almost looking for an excuse to divorce her. She was his second wife and he seemed to be quite ready to move onto number three; he’s one of those men who see women as an accessory to showcase and then discard when they get inconvenient or old.”

“Not our problem Robin,” Strike said. “We just collect the information; what our clients do with it is their business.”

“I know,” said Robin. “Men are such shits, though.”

Strike silently agreed. He knew just how shitty men, including himself, could be. He still felt guilty about Lorelei. He’d been a selfish prick. He should have ended things far sooner, when he realised that she wanted something more serious than he was willing to give her. But Robin was probably thinking about Matthew, the cheating, lying bastard…

“What’s in the bag?” he asked, trying to redirect the conversation. 

“Freebies,” Robin said with a grin. “Actually, it’s for you. Courtesy of the Gastrointestinal Association which is having a massive conference next week.”

She pulled out the large box of anti-chaffing cream samples.

“Please don’t be offended but I was looking at a leaflet about this cream when Belinda came up and she shoved a full box of samples on me. You can chuck it if you don’t want it.”

Strike took the box and whistled when he saw the brand name. “That’s the good stuff,” he said, surprised that he felt touched rather than irritated by Robin’s solicitude. The barriers would have been flying up if Lorelei had ever given him such a gift; he’d felt trapped when he had to ask her to pick up a script from the pharmacy for him. “Frightfully expensive so I usually use another. What else is in there?”

Robin tipped out the bag. A stress ball, pained to look like the small intestines, rolled onto the floor. As she picked it up, she saw Cormoran was holding what looked like to be human faeces. It turned out to be another stress toy.

“I think we need alcohol for this,” said Robin, giggling.

A laminated poster ‘What your poo says about you’, fully illustrated and clearly designed to be hung in a doctor’s office was next. Robin discarded leaflets advertising pill cameras, new drugs, stoma bags and MRI devices but paused at a box of laxatives. “Do you want these?” Strike looked at her witheringly.

“Do they have a ‘shitty business partner of the month’ poster?”

“No contest,” Robin grinned. “You’d win every time.”

Robin put another sample of the anti-chapping cream onto Strike’s desk. Pens, notepads and magnets featuring the names of medical suppliers and prescription medications made up the remainder.

“Pity I don’t know any eight-year-old boys,” Robin said. “They’d get a kick out of that poo squishy.”

“I’ll save it for my nephews,” Strike said mischievously. “Greg and Lucy can have the laxatives. Maybe they’d be less uptight after a good shit.”

*******************

At 6pm, Strike and Robin called it a night and headed to the Tottenham. They had filled in each other about their day’s interviews, typed out their reports and sent a final invoice to his Lordship. They’d also agreed between themselves to take on a client involved in a child custody dispute – always a sensitive issue but far more satisfying than their more lucrative work tailing the unfaithful spouses of the rich and famous.

Robin had been fascinated to learn of Sam’s possible secret homosexual life and was speculating about his potential fetishes as well as where he might have picked up partners.

“I’ll have to ask Anthony,” she said, referring to her flatmate who volunteered at a local LGBTIQ drop-in centre and radio station as well as enjoying a steady stream of casual partners. “He’ll probably know a few places we could start looking. Not that he’s a huge fan of married men still in the closet.”

Of all the things Robin had learned during her five months of sharing a flat with Anthony, what had surprised her the most was the level of intolerance, racism, ageism, fatism, pettiness, gossip and judgement in parts of the gay community. Anthony wasn’t too bad, but Robin had called him out a few times over things he had said about a couple of the men who had passed in and out of his bedroom.

“I hate to imagine what you say about me to your friends,” she remarked, following a particularly snide comment about his previous night’s companion's thinning hairline.

“Robin darling, you have the most beautiful hair,” he defended himself.

“Lots of men in their 30s and 40s have thinning hair,” Robin pointed out. “It’s called male pattern baldness for a reason.”

“Which is why I prefer men in their 20s,” her flatmate replied, conveniently ignoring the fact he was pushing 40 years himself.

“Did I tell you that Anthony nearly burnt the flat down last week?” Robin asked Strike. “He and his friend were playing with hot wax and dropped a candle in his bedroom. Anthony ruined his favourite woollen jumper putting it out.”

“Melted chocolate is a much better option if you are into that sort of thing,” Strike replied. “No risk of fire and then you get to lick it off your partner.”

Robin hoped Strike hadn’t noticed how warm she had become, a vivid image of him licking chocolate off her body popping into her mind.

“I’ll pass on your tip to Anthony,” Robin said as evenly as she could manage, after taking a big sip of her wine. “Trust you to have a food version of every kink.”

Strike had noticed Robin’s pupils dilating and recklessly decided to push the conversation along.

“I don’t think curry would work very well,” he mused. “But imagine what you could do with liquorice ropes.”

Robin snorted into her wine glass.

“I once had a pair of edible undies with liquorice ties,” she said. “Not as good as it sounds. They got terribly sticky – not in a good way – and apparently tasted awful.”

It was Strike’s turn to turn scarlet, picturing Robin in said attire.

“You started it,” she pointed out. “And you are only on your second pint.”

_“How drunk would both of us have to be before I could suggest we try it ourselves?” _wondered Strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So anyone contemplating the glamorous world of PR should note it often involves creating and packing promotional products for far from glamorous businesses and industries, most of which will be discarded by most recipients. In my experience, pens represent the best value for money as they will be kept and used as long as the ink holds out. Convincing clients to spend their budget on quality pens rather than leaflets no one will read, however, is a challenge.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the rating has now moved up to M as Robin"s and Strike's inner thoughts brecome even more carnal, and Anthony and Robin confess their most embarrassing moments.

Robin couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned unable to rid her mind of the image of Strike licking chocolate off her breasts and abdomen and working his way down the rest of her body. She was as horny as hell and unable to shake or satiate the desire. A hot shower and some personal attention to her nether regions provided moments of temporary relief but not the big soft enveloping warn weight she felt she needed to soothe her body. Unable to sleep or concentrate on reading, she decided to try and distract herself by watching TV. 

When Anthony let himself in at 1am, he was startled to find his flatmate awake and lying on the couch buried under every blanket they had - including his quilt and a picnic rug.

"Robin, are you ill?" he asked, pressing a hand against her forehead. Her temperature felt normal. A bead of sweat was running down her neck - not surprising given the eight blankets piled on her body!

"I'm fine," Robin muttered. "Just thinking about a case," she added, half-truthfully.

"What's with all the blankets?" Anthony asked.

Robin groaned. "It's too embarrassing." 

"More embarrassing than when I left a butt plug in the bathroom and only discovered it AFTER my mum's visit?"

Robin screeched with laughter. "You never told me that!"

"I've been trying to forget it ever since. As, I hope, my mum has." 

Robin sighed. "I'm in lust," she admitted. "I told Cormoran about how you accidentally started a fire when you and Etienne were playing with hot wax, just for something to say. And he said melted chocolate was better because you could lick it off your partner and now I can't stop thinking about that. I'm obsessed. All I can think about is how much I want Cormoran to lick chocolate off my body and that's never going to happen."

Anthony wanted to laugh. "Did you ask him?"

"No!!!" said Robin, mortified. "I don't think he sees me that way. I mean he likes me as a person but I'm not exactly the worldly sophisticated type he's used to. Most of the time he doesn't even think of me as a woman but then he suddenly realises I've got breasts and gets all embarrassed. You should have seen his eyes popping out of his head when I wore my gym gear the other day. It's like he's a 12-year-old boy who suddenly realises his 13-year-old sister has tits."

"Hmm," said Anthony, wondering if Robin was misreading the situation. "But what's that got to do with the blankets?"

"Cormoran is big and soft and warm and I just wanted to feel like I was wrapped in him," admitted Robin.

"You have got it bad," said Anthony. "Can I have my quilt back?"

By the next morning, Robin had composed herself sufficiently to greet Strike in a normal voice, although she avoided looking him in the eye. He would usually have noticed this except for the fact he was also avoiding looking Robin in the eye, unable to get the image of her in edible underwear out of his mind. They maintained a polite, professional facade, carefully discussing their current cases, planning an approach for their new custody dispute client and trying to make sense of the multiple companies, trusts and offshore accounts of their flakey financier. Strike interviewed a potential new client. Robin updated the website and responded to a text from Miranda who was now in daily contact with her sister in Sri Lanka and sounding much happier. Barclay dropped off his report on the horny husband he had been tailing. Even he could sense the electric current of tension sizzling just below the surface. 

"Have I missed something?" he asked. 

"No," replied Strike and Robin in unison. 

Barclay raised an eyebrow. "Ohhh-kay. I'll just head off then."

Strike and Robin silently watched Barclay descend the stairs.

"Robin," said Strike at the same moment Robin said "Cormoran."

They each took a deep breath. 

"You first," said Strike. 

"I spoke to Anthony last night," she said, not looking at him. "He said there are too many places married men go for hookups; he'd need a narrower location than just London to even start. Apparently some men choose a place near home or work for convenience while others travel some distance for anonymity. 

"But he's going to put the police 'information sought' poster up in the drop in centre with a note that if people know something but don't want to speak to the police initially, to speak to him. It's got a photo of Sam on it so hopefully, even if he was using a different name, someone might recognise him. "

"Well done Robin," Strike said. "We have to tread carefully so we aren't accused of interfering in a police investigation but I think at this stage Wardle will take all the help he can get."

"Anthony also said he'll mention it on the radio tonight - he has this 'missed connections' segment and while this isn't quite that, he'll work it in."

Strike nodded. "I just wanted to check in and see if you are okay. You don't seem to be quite your usual self today."

"Just tired," lied Robin, yawning. "I stayed up late talking to Anthony; didn't get to bed until 3am. What about you?"

"I didn't get much sleep either," admitted Strike. I went back to the pub after seeing you off last night and ended up falling asleep here on the couch. I woke up needing to pee and managed to get myself into bed after that."

Strike omitted mentioning that he had got little sleep in his bed, having finally given into the temptation of playing out in his mind a fantasy of Robin in her edible undies and he undoing the liquorice ties and using his tongue to sample her inner flavour. Christ, he was getting hard again just thinking about it. 

"So early night for both of us," yawned Robin.

Strike looked at her properly for the first time that day, noticing the dark shadows under her eyes and a strange expression that seemed to go beyond mere tiredness. 

"Robin, you look totally done in. Have a lie down on the couch and I'll hop out and get us lunch." 

He stalled her protest, finding himself quoting her quoting him.

"Robin, someone I respect and care about deeply, recently reminded me that pretending you are okay when you are not, isn't a strength. And even though I am a stubborn, grumpy old bastard, I am incredibly grateful I listened to her and was able to let her help me. Please also listen to this incredible, wise beautiful woman and lie down, get some rest and let me get us lunch."

Robin stared at Strike open mouthed but without saying a word obediently kicked off her shoes and laid down on the couch.

_Had he just called her beautiful?_

She closed her eyes and was fast asleep before Strike even made it out of the building. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we all know what my favourite line in Lethal White is.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there are good reasons normal people plan out their stories – at least they don't get stuck halfway through wondering 'now what do I do'? 😊
> 
> I also now understand the appeal of the 'one-shots'! 
> 
> I have great admiration for those who post so regularly.
> 
> I am resisting the feelings of inadequacy when I compare my writing and posting to others; we’re all on our own journeys. I'm having fun doing this and it's certainly expanding my usual factual writing side; it's also been therapeutic to expunge a very unpleasant workplace from my soul.

Robin was still asleep when Strike came back to the office. He put her sandwich in the fridge and gulped his down with a can of coke. Feeling significantly better now than when he had first woken up, and fed up with manoeuvring his bulk on crutches, he decided to return to his flat and try putting his prosthesis back on. 

The swelling had gone down considerably, and the cuts were healing nicely. Strike resolved to pick up a tube of the cream Robin had brought back from the Gastrointestinal Association, wryly acknowledging that the manufacturers knew what they were doing handing out free samples! Having reattached his prosthesis, he was delighted to find he could walk reasonably normally again. He gathered up a blanket for Robin and stepped cheerfully back down to the office. 

Robin was moving fitfully on the couch, still asleep but muttering. Strike grinned as he heard her murmur his name and the word 'chocolate'. He opened his desk drawer where, miracle of miracles, there was an untouched bar of Dairy Milk. He gently touched her shoulder and, when she opened her eyes, held out the bar of chocolate. 

"You asked me for chocolate in your sleep,” he said. “There's also a sandwich in the fridge if you prefer."

Robin blushed a deep scarlet as she sat up. "Thanks!" she squeaked. "I'll just... I'll just get my sandwich. And put on the kettle. Do you want tea? What time is it anyway?" she babbled. 

Strike patted her arm gently. "Relax Robin. I'll get your sandwich and put on the kettle. No rush."

Robin gazed bleary-eyed at her boss' broad back as he limped towards the kitchen. "Your leg," she said stupidly. 

"Still missing," Strike replied cheerfully. "But I got the prosthetic back on. I'll be able to give Sam a break now."

Robin munched the sandwich Strike handed to her. 

"I'll have to go clean myself up," she said, swallowing the last mouthful. "I must look a fright."

"You look... you look... you always look good to me," Strike said. "But yes, your makeup is smudged."

Scarlet, Robin grabbed her handbag and staggered to the tiny bathroom. Strike stared after her, wondering why she was so disconcerted.

The front door crashed open, and Strike peered down the stairwell to see who was there. Miranda was climbing the stairs accompanied by a dark man who looked like he may be related to her. The man was talking angrily to Miranda, whose eyes were downcast. Just as they passed the bathroom, Robin came out. Miranda greeted her like an old friend but the man looked at both women disdainfully. Strike felt an impatient stir of anger at this unknown man looking at Robin with anything less than respect. Unconsciously, he stood up straighter, stuck out his broad chest and aimed a dark piercing glare at the man, while calling out, “Robin, can you please bring our visitors upstairs. We can speak more comfortably up here.”

*******************

Strike bustled about with the kettle, making up Miranda’s and Robin’s tea before returning with a plate of biscuits and finally his and the unknown man’s hot drinks. He could tell Miranda’s companion was both disconcerted and uncomfortable with him paying courteous attention towards the two women rather than the male guest – but was unwilling to challenge a 6’3” muscular ex-boxer. He could also tell by the glint in her eyes, that Robin knew exactly what he was up to and approved heartily.

“It’s very nice to see you again,” Robin was saying to Mrs Green. “Unfortunately, we have no new information and it is just luck that both Mr Strike and I are in. It’s always best you give us a call first, so you don’t waste a trip.”

“My brother, Joshua – Mr Havig, wanted to meet Mr Strike,” Miranda said sullenly.

Strike said laconically, “I believe we spoke on the phone the other day Mr Havig.”

There was something about Joshua Havig that irritated Strike. Like Sam Green, Joshua had a false smile that did not reach his eyes and an obvious contempt for women including his own sister and Robin.

“Ms Ellacott is leading this investigation,” Strike told Joshua. “Just so you are aware, she is a partner in this business and my best investigator. She has conducted most of the interviews in this case and often steps up (_literally, Strike thought_) to help with my work.”

Robin blushed. Strike was really laying it on thick, she thought. But she knew he valued her work and it was all true.

“Mr Havig,” Robin said. “Since you’ve come in, can I ask you a few questions? Just to try and understand a bit more about your brother-in-law and the people he may have been involved with.”

Joshua scowled but, catching Strike’s eye, plastered a false smile on his face and turned to Robin.

“Of course,” he said politely.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Strike. “I have a few phone calls to make.”

Robin gave Joshua one of her friendly but professional smiles. “Can you tell me how long you knew Sam?”

*******************

Ninety minutes later, Robin walked into Strike’s office looking drained and exhausted.

“Pub?” she asked weakly. “My shout.”

“That bad?” asked Strike.

“It was like pulling teeth. Worth it though.”

“You must tell me about your previous career as a dentist.”

She glared weakly at him.

At the pub, Strike steered Robin into a cosy booth and went to order their first round. He didn’t like how tired she appeared; she looked like she might pass out if she drank even one glass of wine on an empty stomach. Strike added a bowl of chips and serve of battered fish to the order for Robin and the ‘parma and pint’ house special for himself.

“Cheers!” he said, passing a glass of white wine to Robin and holding up his pint.

“Joshua makes Sam look like he’s a card-carrying suffragette,” Robin began. “I really appreciate you backing me up and I’m not complaining about doing a difficult interview but maybe next time you should talk to him.”

Strike raised an eyebrow. Robin had never previously complained about dealing with difficult interviewees. She had fought off and talked her way out of encounters with cold-blooded murderers, charmed secrets out of hard-nosed criminals, stressed businessmen and disgruntled police officers, and complained when Strike had tried to protect her from dangerous late-night stakeouts in seedy parts of the city. What was it about this unpleasant little man that could reduce even a brave intelligent capable woman like Robin to begging off work she loved?

“Although,” Robin added with a grin, “maybe if he hadn’t been such an arsehole, I wouldn’t have got quite so much out of Miranda.”

“Go on,” said Strike.

“To begin with, did you know he was in London at the time of Sam’s murder?”

Strike looked startled.

“Yeah, I assumed he’d come here to support his sister after Sam died but it turns out he arrived in London almost a week before Sam came to see us. He was attending – get this – a pharmacology conference on new vaccinations!”

“Very interesting,” said Strike.

“Joshua manages a WHO immunisation program in southern Sri Lanka,” Robin said. “Previously, he was one of the health workers that traipsed out to remote areas to administer the vaccines. Which means he would have the knowledge and skill needed to kill someone by injecting a fatal dose between their toes,” she finished triumphantly.

Strike looked at her admiringly. “Bloody oath Robin, you are amazing! Does he have an alibi for the night Sam died?”

“He got very stroppy when I started asking about that but claims he was at a WHO dinner. I thought maybe we could ask the police to check it out. It was pretty obvious I was not going to get much out of him if he thought I was treating him as a suspect, and I thought it more important at this stage to get as much other information as I could.”

“Fair enough,” said Strike, making a note to call Wardle. “Ah, speaking of dinner, here’s ours.”

Robin stared at the plate piled with battered fish and chips that had been placed before her.

“I didn’t order this,” she said.

“Nope, I did. Eat up. You don’t eat enough and you are looking peaky. It is part of my responsibilities as an employer to make sure you don’t collapse from hunger.”

Robin struggled with a range of emotions, eventually allowing amusement to come to the fore. She picked up a chip and nibbling on it said lightly, “I’ve gained five kilograms since working with you.”

“And anyway,” she added in mock-seriousness. “What about my responsibilities as a partner in the business to institute a smoke-free workplace?”

Strike scowled. He had laughed off the letter they had received earlier that month from Acas about creating a healthy workplace but later that night, after Robin had gone home, he’d completed the OH&S checklist for their office. The next day he bought and installed a smoke detector, but knew they were still nowhere close to compliant.

“I keep my door shut and the window open to minimise second-hand smoke,” Strike said defensively.

“I’m not complaining,” said Robin quickly. “It’s your body.”

She would never tell Strike what to do but the stark statistics laid out in the healthy workplace information booklet had shook her more than she would admit. One in two smokers die prematurely from a preventable condition directly relating to their smoking. Heart disease was the most common cause of death in the UK with smoking, poor diet and even his amputated leg ramping up Strike’s risk profile. Excessive alcohol consumption and participation in contact sports – boxing and street fighting – meant he could already be carrying a minor acquired brain injury… Robin shook her head. This way lay madness. Strike almost certainly knew the statistics better than she. He made his own decisions. She re-focussed on the case at hand,

“Joshua was no fan of Sam,” Robin said. “He described Sam as a parasitic wastrel who was lucky to have latched onto his silly slut of a sister; he said this right in front of Miranda!”

“Jesus,” said Strike. “How did Miranda react?”

“Looked down, turned red, started crying silently. Later, when Joshua was using the loo, she whispered to me that Joshua would know all about being a parasite. The insurance company won’t pay out until after the inquest and Joshua is furious. His idea is that she comes back to Sri Lanka and signs over all the money to the family in return for how much they’ve spent keeping her.”

Strike grunted. “Do you think she will?”

“Don’t know. He’s family and she hasn’t got any friends here. On the other hand, Miranda’s seems determined to protect her daughter and has been meeting with someone from the women’s legal service – they’ve helped organise childcare and benefit payments for her, so she’s got options.”

“I asked Joshua if he knew any of Sam’s friends or acquaintances and his response was that he didn’t spend time with deviants. So, I’m guessing that means he was aware of Sam’s sexual preferences. Miranda didn’t show any reaction to this – she either didn’t understand or didn’t care. I think it might be worth me having another chat with her, woman to woman. And if you could talk to Joshua, man to man, you might get more than I can out of him.”

“Fair enough,” said Strike, stealing one of Robin’s chips. “I’ll call him tomorrow.“


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience! Very glad to report that I finally have a conclusion in sight. I kept on thinking 'I've left this too long' but it is more frustrating when a story you are reading ends mid-way. And it's started being fun again (at least for me!), writing this chapter.

The next day, while Robin was following up a lead for one of their paying cases, Strike gave Joseph Havig a call.

“Mr Havig? Strike here. Can we make a time to meet up? Just you and me, to clarify a few things that we don’t need to worry the women about.

“As I said, Robin is my best investigator but as a man of the world I understand there are things we sometimes don’t want to worry our wives or sisters about. And if there’s anything that has nothing to do with the case, there is no reason why it would ever have to go any further than you and me.

“No, I have nothing definite from the police, but I understand there is some CCTV footage they are looking at.”

Strike crossed his fingers, hoping this vague statement was enough to worry Joseph into opening up to him.

“Robin is a top investigator – but she isn’t a man; doesn’t understand our needs. How about I get her to interview your sister again and then we can have a chat without needing to worry about being interrupted by either of them.”

“Excellent. This afternoon at 2pm then? We’ll send the women to the café; they’ll like that sort of thing.”

Strike put down the phone with a grin, half wishing Robin had been there to hear the conversation –but also knowing she would have been quietly seething at the content despite understanding the need for this approach.

**************************

That afternoon, at Gino’s, Robin swapped a steaming cup of coffee for the letter Miranda was holding out for her.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A letter from the insurance company. My brother is going to be very angry.” Miranda sounded quite cheerful about this.

Robin scanned the letter quickly and then read it again, more closely. She couldn’t understand why Miranda was so happy.

“It’s saying that you will only get five per cent of the insurance money each year, with the rest to be invested and held in trust until your daughter, the beneficiary, turns 18.”

“Exactly. Sara is protected. Joseph can only steal a little bit at a time.” Miranda sounded positively triumphant.

“Why should he steal anything at all?” asked Robin.

“It is that way in my family. What the men want, the men take. This means to get the money, they will have to take care of Sara until she is 18. They can’t make her disappear.”

“Are you saying that you and Sara are in danger?” Robin asked.

“Not now,” said Miranda. “Sara has money. She is protected.”

Robin’s head was reeling. She could hear Strike’s voice in her head. “_We’re not social workers_, _Robin._ _We can’t solve all the problems of the world.”_

_“I can’t leave a mother and child in danger!” _Robin retorted silently to her imaginary Strike.

“£50,000 per year is a lot of money,” she found herself saying. “You could stay in England. You could make new friends.”

_Shut up, Robin. You are already too involved._

“What I mean,” she added hastily, “Is that you can talk about your options with the women’s financial councillor. Maybe she could help you resettle here, if that’s what you want. Then you could use the money for Sara and yourself. Maybe help your sister and mother a bit without giving your brother or father the money.”

Had she gone too far? Miranda looked scared but determined.

“If only I knew someone in England besides you,” she began.

Robin had a brainwave. “Would you like to meet some other people from Sri Lanka who are now living in England?” she asked.

Miranda nodded.

“Don’t make any rash decisions,” said Robin. “Give me a few days. I think I know someone who could help.”

**************************

While Robin was having coffee with Miranda, Strike was interviewing Joseph Havig. He had made the appointment that morning after having received some very interesting information from Wardle. Joseph had **not **been at the WHO dinner on the night of Sam’s murder.

This was not conclusive proof that Sam was the murderer, but it did mean that he had something to hide. There was a good chance it might be nothing more than a wild night on the town, away from his wife and conservative community. Strike put on his best ‘man of the world’ manner.

“London’s a big place. Lots of clubs with entertainment you don’t get anywhere else.”

He winked_._

Joseph said nothing. Strike tried again.

“Mr Havig – Joseph. Neither I nor the police care if you spent the night drinking alcohol or at a men’s club rather than attending a dinner. We understand – you had already spent all day at the conference; you needed to blow off some steam. And these places are perfectly legal here in London. If you were at one of these clubs and we can confirm it, we know you couldn’t have been with your brother-in-law.”

Joseph looked startled.

“I thought you said there was CCTV footage…” he began and then stopped, obviously concerned he had given something away.

Strike decided to take a risk and go with his gut instinct.

“Well, yes, but that was from fairly early on,” he lied. “We want to know what happened later.”

Joseph looked scared. Strike blessed his luck and hoped it would continue.

“Why don’t you just tell me exactly what happened when you saw Sam that night?”


	18. Chapter 18

Joseph slumped in his chair. Gone was the false smile and bullying manner. He looked utterly deflated and defeated. Strike remained silent, just looking, waiting for Joseph to fill the silence. 

Finally, Joseph began speaking.

“Sam was not a good man. He was a puffed-up failure, a con man. He was not a good husband for my sister but what could she expect, after her foolishness?” 

He looked at Strike, seeking approval or at least understanding. Strike remained impassive, hiding his disdain. 

“I saw Sam after the first day of the conference. Some people at the conference said they were going to a show that night and asked me if I wanted to come along. They said it was called ‘Les Girls’. Some of the women at the conference were going so I thought it would be all right; that it wouldn’t be anything inappropriate.”

Strike’s facial expression did not change but mentally he was smirking. He thought he knew where this story was going. 

“We got there and there was a sign saying ‘Adults only 18+’ but I didn’t think about that. Inside, there were lots of tables in front of a stage. People were drinking but I expected that. I did notice that some of the women were very tall and muscular, even for Europeans, but they were all very glamorously dressed; they looked like move stars.

“The show started and at first I really enjoyed it. There was a big beautiful woman in a long sequined dress singing and I said to my neighbour she sounded as good as Aretha Franklin. He told me she wasn’t singing, she was miming. I thought that was cheating but she was very good.

“And then, I saw Sam at a little table in front of me. He was with one of the glamorous women and they were kissing. Very passionately, not just a ‘hello’ kiss that you see here. And then I saw that she wasn’t a woman but a man wearing women’s clothes. And then I realised that most of the glamorous women in the room were men. Even the singer.

"I gave a gasp and Sam must have heard me. He looked straight at me. First he looked shocked and horrified. Then he gave a little smile, said something to the woman - I mean man - with him, picked up a camera and took a photo of me. Then he made a gesture, for me to go outside with him.

"I told Sam that I was appalled to see how he was treating my sister. He just laughed and said that my wife wouldn't be impressed with the photo he could send her. So we were at a stalemate. I left straight away but I was worried. I knew I couldn't trust him."

Joseph stopped talking. Strike nodded encouragingly .

"So when did you next see or speak to Sam?" he asked.

Joseph hesitated. “Sam called me two days later,” he said reluctantly. “He said that he had been thinking he should send the photo to my wife. He asked me if I could help Miriam with some money for the baby.”

Strike’s face was neutral. “Did you give him any money?”

Joseph sighed. “I didn’t feel like I could say no. I gave him £200 which was all the English money I had. It was supposed to be for the special dinner at the end of the conference. That’s why I didn’t go. I couldn’t afford it.”

“So what did you do that night, Mr Havig?”

Joseph didn’t look Strike in the eye. “I stayed in my hotel room,” he mumbled.

Strike sighed. “I don’t believe you Mr Havig and neither do the police.”

Joseph looked miserable. “I don’t need to answer your questions.”

“No,” agreed Strike pleasantly. “But the truth has a way of coming out.”

*******************

Later that evening, as they shared a take-out Chinese dinner, Strike and Robin filled in each other over their respective interviews. Robin couldn't help laughing at how Joseph had been fooled by the cross-dressing performers but grew more serious when she learned about Sam’s attempted blackmail.

“Urgh. I almost feel sorry for Joseph but they really do deserve each other.” She sighed and yawned loudly. “Do you think he killed Sam?”

Strike searched in his plate for any meat he might have missed. “Yeah, I think there is a good chance he did. I met a lot of guys like him in the army. Puffed up bullies who lash out whenever they are threatened. But getting the evidence will take a lot of police grunt work. We haven’t got the resources for it ourselves and he’s not the type to confess. 

“I’m a bit worried about our client. I hope she hasn’t yet told him that he won’t have easy access to that insurance payout. He might be tempted to shorten the path.”

Robin blanched. “Oh Lord, I hope not.”

She glanced at her watch. “I can’t believe the time. No wonder I’ve been yawning. It’s too late for me to call now but first thing in the morning.”

Strike looked at his watch too. “Fuck, it’s too late for you to get the tube now. Not safe. I’ll call you a taxi.”

“Unless,” he added almost shyly. “You’d prefer to stay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh!
> 
> A couple more chapters and I should have this wrapped up - at least as a case fic. I'm not so good at the relationship stuff - I do awkward and embarrassed better than smut - but practice makes perfect!
> 
> If I ever do another long piece I'm planning it out first!


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